


The unexpected benefits of a long distance relationship

by OhAine



Series: Memoirs of a Pathologist [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Wank!Lock, Wank!olly, mollock, sherlolly smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 15:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10947717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: On the screen, he undresses for her. Not just taking his clothes off, but stripping as though he is a burlesque performer or a high-end escort - deliberately, seductively, for the paying viewer’s pleasure.Companion piece to (All things) By a law divine (part 4 of this series), but can be read as a stand alone.





	The unexpected benefits of a long distance relationship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/gifts).



> An overdue birthday gift fic for my enabler Kiki, who constantly encourages my folly. Happy Birthday my darling girl xx
> 
> I own nothing but my depraved imagination.
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

oOo

 

 

The thing is-

 

The thing is. It gets… _interesting_ when they’re separated for too long. Distance is not something they cope with well.

 

Despite the fact that he’s a much more tranquil human being since his marriage (Lestrade calls it ‘shagged out’ – but not to Mr, or _especially_ Mrs Holmes’ face) Sherlock continues to be a menace to society in general. He’s an emotional man – Mrs Hudson’s dented fridge bears the evidence of that – but for the most part their little hodge-podge family of friends have managed to repress the memory of what pre-Molly-Sherlock was like. Yet, they’ll all freely admit that they’re glad it’s John who has to deal with the love-sick detective when he’s separated from his new wife while on a case.

 

Mostly he shoots things: walls, the occasional master criminal bent on world domination, and on one memorable occasion John – who really wasn’t using that little toe very much anyway as it happens. Occasionally he deduces strangers to tears. Once, he broke into a corner shop at half past two in the morning because he had to have a cigarette or someone was going to die, John assisted with the B&E because it was easier than finding a hiding place for a body. Both were caught. Neither served time. Sherlock still owes Mycroft a favour for that.

 

He texts his wife – _Still alive - SH_ – or sometimes calls, usually at three in the morning when he’s at his loneliest and just needs to hear her voice (and she’ll never be mad at him for waking her because of that). But it isn’t the same as being together.

 

Molly is the calmer of the two, there’s no arguing with that. Well, maybe her year one students would. The tiny tornado that is Molly Hooper-Holmes seems especially… blowy… to the young doctors when her husband leaves town. The morons who’ve just completed a psych rotation have diagnosed separation anxiety, the rest are equally moronic and have settled on sexual frustration. Both factions are wrong. But they’re babies, not fully cooked, so she forgives them.

 

The reality is that when you are parted from the other half of your soul, you’re just not yourself.

 

She hates it when he’s away. It’s only natural, they’re newlyweds, she’s meant to moon after him a bit, even to have lustful thoughts about her new husband (she had them before they were married too, but that’s beside the point) and to pine, just a little. Yes, there will be talking and laughing, holding and comforting, there will be epic, copious, life altering welcome home sex when he gets back. But until then, well, she’s blue and lonesome, and just all ‘round missing him.

 

Phone sex isn’t an option – Mycroft swears the comms monitoring is a matter of national security, Molly and Sherlock have concluded, however, that it’s plain old fashioned sticky beaking – and frankly self-indulgence does little for her when she can’t hear his throaty moans, or the gorgeously desperate sound he makes in the moments before he comes.

 

When he’s away (as he is now, Manchester, hideously gruesome murder, locked room, a 9) there’s dinner with the girls, herbal soothers (nicked from Mrs Hudson’s stash, _shush_ , don’t tell), and tension relieving bubble baths that do fuck all to relieve the tension.

 

In fact, she’s in the bath when the alert chimes on the tenth day he’s been up north. A glass of medicinal red on the side, a warm flannel over her face, she’s almost giddy hoping it’s him when she picks up the phone.

 

Silly, she thinks, for a grown woman to still get butterflies in her tummy about a message from her husband, but there they are, fluttering and soaring all the same. Maybe that’s just the way it is when you’re lucky enough to marry the one great love of your life. They adore each other, there’s no helping it.

 

 _Wait until you’re alone to open. Have fun with it. Missing you._ –SH

Attached to the one liner email, is a file. _IMG_6721.MOV. Tap to download._

Phone set on the edge of the bath, she does exactly that, half expecting it to be pictures from the case he’s working. By some miracle her phone doesn’t end up falling into the bath when she jolts upright, realising what it actually is, and almost tips it over. Her breath catches and her heart soars with love for the outrageous man who would do anything just to make her smile.

 

At first it’s nothing but a blur.

 

In what she guesses is his hotel room, Sherlock is setting his already recording phone down on a bedside locker. He positions and repositions until she can see the wide, comfortable bed covered in crisp linens and soft pillows, as well as its reflection in the mirror of the dressing table that stands opposite.

 

The room is stunning - boutique hotels usually are - and ridiculously luxurious for somewhere that’s supposed to be just a bolt hole while he works. Soft furnishings in amethyst and lilac-grey, contrast beautifully with the stark white sheets and dark walnut bed frame. The curtains are drawn, but a warm honeyed glow is cast from the tasteful lamps scattered about to provide perfect mood lighting. _Trust Sherlock_ , she thinks, _to find a way to look like he’s on a film set and has been lit for the camera by Mario Testino._

 

Her husband of little more than a few weeks stands by the bed and gives the camera a gaze of pure unadulterated lust. There’s an uptick at the corner of his mouth, a mischievous little smile spreads out across his lips. His eyes positively sparkle. With a flirtatious wink Sherlock saunters (in fact swaggers, but that’s okay, he’s got the goods to back it up) around the bed, his jacket slipping from his muscular, angled shoulders as he goes.

 

On the screen, he begins to undress for her. Not just taking his clothes off, but stripping as though he is a burlesque performer or a high-end escort - deliberately, carefully, for the paying viewer’s pleasure.

 

She likes to look, a voyeur (they have that in common), and Sherlock is an exhibitionist, stunning in his ostentatious lack of modesty. They’re perfectly matched.

 

He’s such a tease. But then Molly has a weakness for that too. It’s ridiculously thrilling.

 

She watches as his tantalisingly long fingers slip the buttons of his tight white shirt free with a faint whisper of cotton cloth. First the cuffs, then the placket. One by one they open, revealing the alabaster skin beneath. Sherlock pulls the hem from his trousers and lets the garment fall out of frame. The light casts shadows over him, and Molly can see the dark outline of a burgeoning erection at the front of his trousers. He lowers the zip, palms himself briefly, then unfastens the waist. There’s a gleam, almost predatory, unmistakably playful, in his pretty eyes when he flashes them at her again. Shoes and socks are elegantly toed off, and then, brazen bastard that he is, he turns so that Molly gets a view of his perfect bare arse when he bends to slip his trousers down and off, before prowling cat-like onto the bed, settling on his knees somewhere near the centre. Long limbed and graceful, one naked foot hangs over the edge.

 

For a moment he waits, a calculated interval where he holds perfectly still, time spinning out silently, giving her the chance to indulge the desire to let her gaze drift the length of those coltish legs, over the generous curve of his backside, his abdomen, his sternum then clavicle, the rich angles of his face.

 

His eyes – _those beautiful eyes_ – they watch her, bore into her, and for a split second she thinks he can see her from across the country and half a day away. Transfixed, she can’t tear her own away.

 

On a school trip to Florence when she was sixteen, Molly saw a marble sculpture by Michelangelo that had fuelled her catholic school girl fantasies for years. In a fit of romanticism she’s reminded of that now, watching Sherlock’s finely muscled limbs, broad shoulders and narrow waist, a halo of artfully styled ebony curls tumbling into his glittering, pale eyes that glance up provocatively at her, shadows lovingly sharpening the dramatic cut of his cheekbones and luscious mouth, red and full. He is sensuous. Beautiful. David brought to life by an Ovidian lover. A body made for sin. The illusion shattered only by the glimpse she catches of the thin silver appendectomy scar, and another, a rose starburst, to the right of his sternum.

 

He’s so sexy. So shameless. Just the sight of him is enough to make her body thrum with want. In her mind’s eye, she sees herself trace the bow of his lips with her tongue, the taste of him flooding back to her now. There’s a sense memory of his teeth catching her bottom lip, of his breath, hot, rushing over her skin. The longing to reach out and pull on his extravagant hair is almost too much to bear.

 

Suddenly her mouth is dry.

 

“Molly,” he purrs in a purposefully filthy way. “Touch yourself.”

 

All the while he stares at her with bedroom eyes: long, lingering looks that annihilate her ability to resist, and make her heart flutter beneath her rib cage.

 

Batting his long eyelashes for good measure, Sherlock’s wicked smile is scorching. Provocative in every sense of the word.

 

Molly presses her thighs together, and there’s a flare of moist heat that resolves itself as pulse of arousal. And, oh God, just thinking about him has got her started. Over her soapy skin she lets her thumbs graze her nipples in a teasing touch, her attention still on Sherlock as she imagines his tongue, his teeth. The very softest of sighs escapes her when she scrapes a fingernail over the taut tip as she becomes lost in the fantasy, her hand straying along the curve of each breast in turn. And for a moment he’s there: the rising steam carries the scent of his shampoo, his aftershave, just a short distance away his breath sounds uneven, excited, on her breast his mouth is hot and humid.

 

From the phone’s speaker Sherlock exhales, “It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

 

At the apex of the vee between his legs, his flesh is thickening. One hand lowers slowly to touch it, slicking it with the contents of a tube that had been waiting for him on the bed, the other, fingers splayed, roams over his chest. “Mmmmm, Molly,” Sherlock moans hoarsely, eyelids fluttering softly closed like a birds wings in flight. Plucking at one nipple, then the other, he grasps his heavy length and begins to stroke himself with slow, firm touches from base to tip. On the upstroke, he pulls his foreskin over the crimson glans, on the way down he swipes a thumb over the slit. Head falling back, his jaw slackens and lips part. In his throat, Molly sees his pulse beat strongly. Deep even breaths cause his diaphragm to rise and fall, his bowed back stretches his perfect skin taut over his ribs; his nipples, contracted, are dark in a sea of pale skin.

 

Overlaid with the image before her is one of a night not so long ago in a hotel bedroom. One of her sinking her teeth into his shoulder as she played the part of his whore, Sherlock arching into her mouth, roughly pulling her against him, clutching at her arms, pleading with her to never stop. A phantom taste of his salty skin floods her tongue.

 

One hand still on her breast, the other descends the line of her body and beneath the water. Despite the lack of conscious thought, her middle finger pushes past the soft outer lips, pressing, working it deeper to relieve the desperate need that’s unfurling inside her.  

 

“Are you wet for me?” Sherlock asks, and oh, how she wishes he was there, the words falling from his lips in hot, excited breaths. 

 

Both hands between his legs now, he tugs roughly at his smoothly shaven balls letting out a contented sigh that practically seeps into Molly’s bones. Fleeting touches, his perineum first, then in the mirror she watches as he squeezes his arse around one finger. On the flared tip of his uncut cock there’s a bead of glistening precome: it leaves a shiny wet spot on his stomach as he grows harder, stiffer. He thumbs the ridge, wiping the pearly fluid away.

 

She loves his hands. The fingertips are calloused, wounded from his impassioned playing, but the palms are satin smooth. So large when they cover her breasts. So gentle when they seek her out in the night. So rough when they bring her to the edge of ecstasy. She feels so small, so protected when she gives herself over to their devoted care. Molly thinks about how his fingers feel inside, stretching her open, pushing deep. Watching them on his own body as he gives himself pleasure is a thing of exquisite beauty. But his mouth, his clever mouth, is what she thinks about now.

 

Her fingers flick and press as his tongue would. She can almost feel his hot mouth against her, his straining breath on her damp skin as she holds his head to her cunt, fingers woven through his hair, the scrape of five o’clock shadow prickling along her thighs, her skin on fire everywhere he touches. She’d pull then, nails digging into his scalp, and he’d hum against the seam of her pussy in a way that would send ripples down her spine.

 

Arousal spikes. Molly pushes into herself, fingers curling. There’s a burn: water and soap has washed her own lubrication away, but it doesn’t take long for the discomfort to be overwhelmed by pleasure. In the quiet flat she calls out to him, her eyes snapping shut when she finds that perfect place a few inches inside and at last she can pretend that it’s him inside her body, filling her. The ghost of his plush lips press at the hollow of her throat.

 

“I want you to come with me, Molly. I want you to bring yourself off while you watch.”

 

The flat of his hand brushes over his chest once again, rubbing at the stiff peaks. He hums softly, pleasure and satisfaction. A blush spreads down his long throat, over his chest and shoulders. In the reflected image his buttocks clench, his thighs flex and quiver with tension as he pushes his hips into his fist. Sherlock’s breath shudders, his pace quickens. Legs spread obscenely, his bollocks hang heavily between them. He fondles them and breathes, “ _Oh God_.”

 

He levels her with the look he gives the camera, all searing heat and sex and sin. A corona of moonlight coloured iris encircles blown black pupils that positively devour her through the screen.

 

“I want you on your hands and knees,” Sherlock struggles to speak, panting, gasping. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I have to have you.” He tugs at his scrotum while he fists himself, causing his co-ordination to falter but he’s too far gone to care.  Perspiration beads on the bow of his upper lip, his tongue darts out to lick it away. “As soon as I get home, I’m going to hold you down and push myself deep inside of you, and you’re going to take my cock, screaming and begging for more. You want that, don’t you?” Squeezing his slick fist tighter, his breath begins to hitch, “Ahh, that’s it. I’m getting close.”

 

Molly can’t help but shiver at the idea of being pushed down onto their bed, perhaps with her wrists lashed to the posts. Sherlock forcing her legs apart and holding her open with his knees, sliding his cock into her. Her mind obligingly offers an image of him above her, kissing, touching, fingers twisting in the soft silk she’s bound with. Stripped bare by his rough hands, she’d whine and moan, pinned beneath him. He’d leave the imprint of his fingertips on her shoulder and hip as he held her in place, whispering in her ear in that commanding tone of his, that he’ll only let her come if she’s a good girl while she begs to be fucked harder.

 

She’s almost shaking with it now, the need for him.

 

“Can you feel that, Molly? Can you feel me fucking you?”

 

She responds with a soundless gasp.

 

Molly slides down the smooth wall of the bath, her legs tense and open, pressed against its side, her feet anchored firmly on its floor. The pressure she creates is just enough to force herself deeper. Goosebumps rising on her skin from the cooling water, the frantic motions of her hands on her breast and cunt cause the water to lap over her skin and the edge of the bath, splashing onto the tiled walls and floor.

 

From Manchester, he says her name again and bites at his lip. All the while his hand moves faster, harder, tighter, over his blood-swollen cock, the slick sound it makes is deliciously obscene. Groaning, pornographically low and deep, he throws his head back, hair a wild untamed mess, eyes pressed tightly closed, his neck arching, flushed, his face simultaneously blissful and pained. The rhythm of his thrusting speeds up. Sherlock pumps furiously, frantically into his lovely hand, and hisses, low and dirty, “Fuck. I’m coming,” as he strokes himself to climax. “Come with me, Angel.”

 

Molly tenses, calls his name, clenches around her finger. Breathing so hard that she’s dizzy. Almost there. Almost. Her hand moving beneath the water, bringing her closer and closer. Then she changes the angle, flicks her wrist so that it catches her clitoris on every thrust, and – _bang!_ – fireworks ignite over Baker Street. Her cries echo off the walls, ringing out clear and loud, water splashing, spilling. Molly’s toes curling against the slippery bottom of the tub from the unexpected intensity, her muscles twitching and aching from the awkward way she’s pressed against its sides.

 

In a hotel room two hundred miles away, Sherlock jerks and trembles with the force of his orgasm. He gasps: thick ropes of milky white semen painting his stomach and chest, spilling over his fingers, a string of expletives pouring from his plush lips. Aftershocks making his body shiver, and getting too sensitive now his hand stills. The soft sounds dying in his throat, his eyes flash at Molly, so far away from him in London, and he tells her, “I love you so much.” As the last of the tremors fade, he slumps down, breathless, ragged, sitting back on his heels.

 

Though she knows he can’t hear, Molly’s voice is barely a whisper, “I love you too.”

 

It’s as though they’re no longer separated by time and space, because their eyes meet when he says, “I miss you. It’s ridiculous to be this lonely without you when I know I’ll see you in just a few days.”

 

He reaches out, hand on phone, and looking every bit as lost as she is. “Call me later. Love you.” And then he’s gone, the video cutting off.

 

Molly blinks, stares at the blank screen, feeling infinitely lonelier than she had been twenty minutes before.

 

 

oOo

 

 

It’s past two a.m. when Sherlock makes his way back to his hotel.

 

Fidgeting with his phone, he checks it again.

 

Nothing, still.

 

Molly hasn’t answered his email, hasn’t texted, hasn’t called. She might have been waiting up for him, but it’s late now, and the last thing he wants to do is wake her again. It’d be the third time this week, and though she always tells him it’s fine, he knows it’s not fair.

 

Resigned to waiting until morning, he wearily scrubs at his face, his hair.

 

It’s been a long few days and all he wants to do is have a shower and lie down. The case is almost done, it’s a waiting game now, and then he gets to go home. To Molly.

 

He’s decided that this is the last out of town case he’ll take. He misses her too much, it hurts his heart to be away from her for this long. God knows, it’ll only get harder when they finally do get pregnant. It just isn’t worth it anymore, not when she’s there waiting for him.

 

Sherlock stops right in his tracks when he opens the hotel room door. Before the bedside light is even turned on, he knows. Molly’s scent fills the air.

 

For a moment he forgets to breathe.

 

There’s a creak as she shifts on the mattress, and in the light cast by the bedside lamp Sherlock sees a tiny sheet-swaddled pathologist turn over in an adorably sleepy way.

 

His throat swells, his eyes prickle sharply, but he knows he’s grinning like an idiot despite the fact that he thinks he might cry. Because it’s Molly. His Molly. Her love for him has lit something inside of him that he never knew existed until that first night when she kissed him, and he wonders how it’s possible that he feels so loved by her when she is the one who is the most beloved of all.

 

Without taking his coat off he lies down beside her, their bodies pressed together, holding her oh so tight, his heated happy face buried in the crook of her neck. He loves how small she is, that she fits in the space under his chin and so perfectly against his chest. It’s all he can do sometimes not to hold onto her forever.

 

Molly throws her arms around him and half giggles, “Hello there, naughty boy.”

 

Tenderly, she sweeps away a rebellious spiral of ebony hair that’s fallen into his sparkling eyes.

 

“What are you- What are you doing here?” his voice is thick, breathing gone tight. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

 

“Took a commuter flight. I have to go back in the morning.” Molly stifles a yawn. “But there was something that I needed, and it couldn’t wait.”

 

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, his lips and nose on her skin, still not sure that he isn’t dreaming and that she’s really there with him.

 

“Yup,” she waggles her eyebrows, her hand resting on his heart. “I flew in to see the live show. I hear it’s even better than the movie.”

 

He’d roll his eyes but that would involve him taking them off her, and _that_ he’s not prepared to do, not even for one second. Instead, Sherlock hugs her, kisses her hair, all the while smiling like he’s the happiest man in the world. “I’ve missed you so much.”

 

“I’ve missed you too.”

 

He draws her in tight. Flips her over with a playfully possessive growl bubbling up from low in his belly. Molly squeals and squirms with fake alarm, his mouth hovers a hair’s breadth from hers.

 

Hot-hard-yielding, the line of his body pressed to hers. They’re both laughing and gasping, murmuring _I love you_ against each other’s lips.

 

And then Molly’s hands are tangled in his hair, her lips are kissing his. She peels him out of his clothes, lays him down, straddling his thighs, and lets them both have everything they’ve been missing.

 


End file.
